


Golden

by HieeeBella



Series: Peeks of a love ended too soon [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 09:11:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14517180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HieeeBella/pseuds/HieeeBella
Summary: Enjolras is nosy and discovers something he doesn't think he was supposed to see





	Golden

It was late in the afternoon when they stepped out of the rain and into the stairway of Grantaire’s apartment building. It was in the less favorable end of town, and Enjolras was surprised by the cleanliness of the place. In the spring shower it had blended into its surroundings, but it looked almost as nice as Enjolras’ apartment building. 

He looked around as he followed Courfeyrac up the stairs. He’d never been here before, never had a reason to. Grantaire was a private person, and Enjolras was usually not his first choice for company, outside of meetings. He was not surprised to see that Courfeyrac had a key though, as he let them in through the front door on the second floor, the one that simply had an ‘R’ painted on it, and he took a second to admire it as he stepped through the door. Courfeyrac had disappeared into what he assumed was the living room, where it seemed he had found Grantaire passed out on the couch. 

They had decided to go pick him up before tonight’s meeting when he didn’t respond to Courfeyrac and Jehan’s texts asking him if he would come. It was a common occurrence, although it was the first time Enjolras had come along. He had volunteered out of curiosity, really. All he knew of Grantaire was what he saw at meetings and the occasional party/casual drunk hangout with the Amis, and he had decided recently after a particular course in his psychology class that he would need to get to know him better if he were to truly convince him of their case. At present, that meant tagging along to rouse him from his drunken stupor and bring him to the meeting, although he was still not particularly compelled to follow Courfeyrac into the smell of alcohol and cigarette smoke that oozed out from the livingroom doorway. 

Instead, he drifted towards another door further down the hall, one that was cracked open a little bit. He pushed the door open further, and the first thing his eyes landed on was the massive painting leaning against the wall opposite the door. 

He recognized the faces on it immediately, all ten of the Amis’ smiling and laughing faces underneath a blooming tree in some sort of heavenly exotic garden. All but one face turned towards the sky and the sun; the Grantaire in the painting was instead looking to his side, a reverence in his eyes that was visible even in a painting. Enjolras traced a hand over his features, over to the object of his attention, recognizing the face as his own. This painted Enjolras was beautiful, almost looked golden and glowing against the grass on which they lay, clearly the leader of the group. He frowned and turned away from the painting; he did not wish to be viewed as the leader of the group, rather he liked to think of them all as equal, would always make sure to let everyone be heard and let everyone have their time to speak. 

His eyes drifted over the messy bed, eyebrows knitting closer at the almost empty bottle by the pillow, and several more strewn about on the floor. He almost missed it, hidden in the corner as it was, but his eyes caught on something glittering gold. 

There, in the corner behind Grantaire’s closet, stood a painting of Enjolras, 8 feet tall and 5 feet wide. He had captured all the little details of his skin, even the little pale freckles that only appeared in the midst of summer, and which Enjolras himself often forgot he had for their being so faint. It was positioned just at the right angle to be seen from the bed, and Enjolras realized with a startling and sudden clarity that this could be the last thing Grantaire looked at before going to bed. A painting of Enjolras so beautiful and complex, it may as well have been a picture. He gently ran his fingers along one of the careful brush strokes, along his cheekbone that was slightly flushed. His lips that were slightly parted and a delicate hue of pink. 

This painting was completely different from the last, the brushstrokes much more careful but somehow no less free, like they were practiced, like they came from muscle memory. He could feel warmth in his cheeks, and he didn’t quite know what to think when he heard rustling in the hallway. He turned away from the painting and went back to the door, peeking out to see Courfeyrac struggling to get a coat on a sluggish Grantaire. When he went over to help, he pretended he didn’t hear the quiet hum of content as he held Grantaire upright, and he was certainly not aware of the warmth returning to his cheeks when Grantaire held his hand as they went down the stairs.


End file.
